Suddenly, her dark eyes alight like water that shakes with a stream of gold in the dark, she would ask: "Why do I like this so ?" Always something in his breast shrank from these close, intimate, dazzled looks of hers.
"Why DO you ?" he asked.
"I don't know.

It seems so true." "It's because--it's because there is scarcely any shadow in it; it's more shimmery, as if I'd painted the shimmering protoplasm in the leaves and everywhere, and not the stiffness of the shape.

That seems dead to me.

Only this shimmeriness is the real living.

The shape is a dead crust.